


saudade

by Icestorm238



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Gen, Mikhail and Haze both have to suffer before they can be happy, Things will change, Torna: The Golden Country DLC, and by that i mean i've got two or three chapters figured out, compliant with Golden Country but not main game, i have a vague plan for this fic, past that we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16364894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icestorm238/pseuds/Icestorm238
Summary: “Mikhail,” Haze says softly, reaching back to wrap a hand in his. “You need to run. I’ll hold them off. Run.”He has not spoken since Milton, did not speak much before, but now he stares resolutely at Haze’s turned back and, with all the conviction he can muster through his terror, says: “No.”Things go differently for Mikhail and Haze after Spessia. If they have each other, they may be able to survive.





	1. running

They are running.

They run and run and run, the earth beneath their feet scorched black in the flames of war, screams and begs and cannon fire scoring the air around them, their vision reduced to each other, the opposing soldiers and the countless dead, and still they run.

His hand is held tight in Haze’s, her grip an iron clamp that keeps them bound together as they run. He has no idea where Lora and Jin are; two had dived one way, two the other, and they didn’t exactly have the time to seek their companions out. So. They run.

Fresh air seems in short supply - his breaths come quick and desperate, bringing only smoke and the intense desire to choke. He can’t stop to cough, though. He has to run. He fights through the pain, gasping for air even faster to compensate, and he runs.

Haze hits out with her staff, sending a gust of wind with it, and the two soldiers in their path fall. Three more take their place. One takes a stab at him, and Haze yanks him out of danger while swinging her staff to block. Wind bursts from the clash, knocking all three over. The momentary distraction is grasped, and they continue their desperate run.

He doesn’t register that he’s fallen until he hits the ground hard, ingesting a mouthful of dirt as he impacts. The need to cough overtakes him and he hacks on the barren floor, hunching over as if it will help (it doesn’t).

Gentle hands wrap around his arms. “Come on, Mikhail,” Haze urges, trying to pull him up. For his part, he tries to stand, but his body doesn’t seem willing to comply. “We can’t stop. We have to keep running.”

“Too late,” a voice sings from behind, and Haze instantly spins to place herself between Mikhail and the newcomer.

_ Newcomers.  _ Soldiers - too many for Mikhail to count - have caught up, cutting off their route back to the camp - back to what  _ was _ the camp. Finally, far too late, Mikhail is able to scramble to his feet, and the coughing fit subsides.

“Mikhail,” Haze says softly, reaching back to wrap a hand in his. “You need to run. I’ll hold them off. Run.”

And she will die. Mikhail has no doubts about that. He doesn’t understand the intricacies behind a Blade’s life, but he knows they can die, and he knows Haze will if he leaves her.

Haze and Lora and Jin are all he has without Milton (and Milton is someone he doesn’t want to think about right now, can’t think about, has not let himself think about since  _ it  _ happened). They are the closest thing he has to a family.

Milton, he is sure, would want him to live, but he does not want to live on alone.

He has not spoken since Milton, did not speak much before, but now he stares resolutely at Haze’s turned back and, with all the conviction he can muster through his terror, says: “No.”

He has lost so much. He refuses to lose any more.

“Mikhail, please,” Haze says, her own terror plain in her voice, and she squeezes his hand as if to beg.

He squeezes back. “No.”

“Aww, how touching,” one of the soldiers sneers. “Get them!”

Haze thrusts her staff into the air with both hands as the soldiers begin to charge them, and the enemy Blades slump, useless, to the ground. Some of the drivers falter, others don’t even hesitate. She follows her opening attack up by dropping it, throwing wind towards their assailants in a gust so strong that Mikhail stumbles into her back, and immediately returns her staff to the air. The Blades, barely recovered, crumple once more, and their drivers trip over them as they’re thrust backwards.

The staff is lowered and Mikhail’s hand is grabbed once more. “Move,” she hisses - Haze is a healer, she knows her limits, she can’t take on all these soldiers alone - and they start to run once more.

One moment she is there, hand firmly gripping his, then Mikhail blinks and she is gone.

He stops and turns, confusion and desperation and  _ fear _ overtaking him, and his foot smacks into a rock.

No. Not a rock. A core crystal, dull and lifeless, as black as the charred earth it lies on.

_ No. _

“Haze!”

“Oh dear,” the same soldier from before says, clambering to his feet. “From touching to tragic. Guess we got her driver, just like we’ll get you too.”

So Lora is - Lora, and Jin, and Haze - they are all-

_ No! _

“You’re not much of a threat without your guard dog, are you,” the soldier is saying, accepting the weapon he’d dropped previously from his Blade without looking. “Young, fit, healthy - you seem suitable for the Praetor. We’ll take you alive, I think.”

Mikhail has been unable to tear his eyes away from Haze’s core crystal.  _ Run, _ he can almost hear her begging,  _ leave me and run. _

To that idea, Mikhail still says  _ no, _ because what point is there to life without people he loves to share it with?

He makes a split-second decision and dives for the crystal, scooping it up with trembling fingers

_ Run,  _ he hears her whisper, so he does.

He doesn’t get very far. A Gort-like creature (what was up with those? What monster had created them, and, perhaps more importantly,  _ why? _ ) grins down at him like a predator sizing up its prey. Other soldiers, both human and Blade, surround him in a circle originating from the creature, weapons all pointing firmly at Mikhail.

He skids to a stop, core crystal clutched to his chest, and swivels in search of an escape. He finds none but the possibility of death on the edge of one of the many spears aimed his way. He considers a suicidal charge at those spears for the briefest of moments, but the knowledge that the people he cared for wouldn’t want that (or perhaps the futile hope that they weren’t all dead, and he wasn’t alone) kept him from it.

Maybe it was fear. Fear of death, and of what came after. Maybe he was just weak.

He couldn’t say for sure.

“Nice try, kid,” the soldier says as he grabs Mikhail’s arm tightly from behind. “But we’ll be taking you both.”

The last thing he remembers is a sharp pain in his head as he blacks out.


	2. pain

Flames sear him through from the inside out. Fire rages through his innards, scorches his skin, devours his mind, turns him mad with a desperatation for it to  _ stop  _ but it refuses to relent. His throat is charred, clogged with embers and smoke and ash. He cannot breathe, only scream. He is blind with the pain, seeing only through an orange haze.

_ Haze. Lora, Jin, Haze. Milton. Save me. _

But they are all dead. They cannot save him.

If only death could come for him too.

“He is surviving,” a voice murmurs, sounding both distant and too close all at once. “He isn’t mutating.”

“It’s working,” says another - or maybe the same, he is in too much pain to tell. “Our first true Blade Eater.”

He wants to cry but the heat has robbed him of moisture. He wants to pass out but the flames keep him awake. He wants to die but the fire says  _ no. _

So he screams. He screams and screams and screams, and prays for it all to end.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

She smiles at her driver, despite the sun streaming in through the windows behind him blinding her.

“No,” he replies, smiling back. “Your name is Fan la Norne.”

Pain jolts through her as he speaks, and her consciousness wanes.

_ Fan la Norne  _ echoes through her mind as she fades.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

Her driver shakes his head, smile plastered ever-present on his face. “Fan la Norne. Your name is Fan la Norne.”

The pain is brutal, vicious, as it cuts through her.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

“Your name is Fan la Norne.”

Pain.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze la Norne.”

She stops, her face falling into a frown. “No. No, that's not right. My name- my name is-”

“Fan la Norne,” her driver smiles encouragingly. The warm orange light streaming through the windows bathes him in a comforting glow. “Almost there. Fan la Norne.”

“Fan la Norne,” she echoes, but it still doesn't seem right. “Fan la… Haze.”

The man before her sighs. “Fan la Norne,” he says yet again, and the pain erupts from within.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

“Oh dear,” her driver sighs. “You've regressed. You are Fan la Norne.”

She hesitates for a long moment. “...Haze.”

Pain overtakes her before he can respond.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

Her driver rises, moving around his desk to stand before her. “You are Fan la Norne,” he says. “This is not hard. Fan la Norne.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she says slowly. “My name is Fan. Haze. My name is Haze.”

“Fan la Norne,” he says, and for some reason she wants to scream. “Your name is Fan la Norne.”

Pain rushes through her, and scream she does.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

“Your name is Fan la Norne.”

More pain.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Fan la Haze. Haze la Fan. Norne.” She frowns, confusion flooding through her. “My name is… Haze.”

“More progress,” her driver purrs. “That’s good. Your name is Fan la Norne.”

“No,” she says with a frown. “No, my name is Haze.”

Pain, and a fade to black.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

A pause. “No. No, my name is Fan la Norne.” Another pause. “Isn’t it?”

Her driver leans against his desk, smile implanted on his face like a stamp. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, your name is Fan la Norne.”

“Fan la Norne,” she says again, and a sick feeling writhes its way through her gut as she does.

That feeling turns into pain soon enough.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

Her driver stares at her from his position behind his desk, one hand resting on the smooth wooden surface. “Hello, Fan la Norne,” he says. “I didn’t intend to awaken you now.”

The curtains are drawn over the windows, but the darkness of the night steals in through the cracks regardless. The room is dark, her driver’s face cast in shadow, and she cannot help but feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“This doesn’t seem to be going so well,” a voice says from the dark corners of the room, and she jerks in surprise as she picks out the figure of a second man.

Her driver sighs, curling one hand in the other. “Certainly not as well as my other project. Speaking of which, any change?”

“The boy has fallen unconscious. Finally stopped screaming. He is in a stable condition.”

“Good, good. I’ll check up on him tomorrow. Perhaps, given his success, it is time to try the next candidate.”

“My name is Haze,” she blurts out. She isn’t sure why.

Her driver sighs again. “Your name is Fan la Norne. We’ve only been through this countless times by now. Fan la Norne.”

She opens her mouth to question him - he’s only called her that twice? - but the pain rips through her before she can.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

“I should just take your core,” her driver groans, rubbing a hand against his forehead. “Be done with you. Now that I’ve got the technology working on that boy and his successors I don’t need the hassle.”

“Excuse me?” she says, a hand rushing protectively to her core.

He waves his free hand at her in a dismissive gesture. “Never mind. You won’t remember this.”

Pain slams into her with the strength of a rampaging armu.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

Something is wrong. She feels off-balance, like a gentlest wind could knock her over. She feels… incomplete.

“Well, that was worthless,” her driver sighs, tugging his hat further down over his forehead. “Hello, Fan la Norne. You have few chances left. You may want to get this right soon. Your name is Fan la Norne.”

“My name is Haze,” she repeats, for lack of anything better to say, and an all-too-familiar pain tears through her.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is..” She stops mid-greeting, gaze dropping to the marble floor. “My name is… what is my name?”

“Fan la Norne,” her driver says, something akin to excitement flashing through his eyes. “Your name is Fan la Norne.”

She doesn’t ask how he knows. “Fan la Norne,” she echoes. “Fan la Norne.”

_ Haze _ springs to mind, unbidden, and  _ yes, I am Haze. _

She is overwhelmed by the pain before she can voice her realisation.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Fan la Norne.”

Her driver’s head jolts up from where it had been focused resolutely on the desk before him. “Yes,” he says, sounding stunned. “Yes, your name is Fan la Norne.”

“My name is Haze.”

She isn’t sure why she says that or where it came from. Her name is Haze. Fan. Her name is Fan la Norne.

His smile is back. “Ah well. You’ve improved. Well done, Fan la Norne.”

Pain stabs her through seconds later.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Fan la Norne.”

Her driver’s smile is wide and sinister. “Yes, you are Fan la Norne.”

Pain, sharp and familiar, rips her apart.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Haze.”

“We can’t have it all, I suppose,” her driver mumbles as the pain hits her.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Fan la Norne.”

“Oh yes,” the man that isn’t her driver says. “Yes, that’s a definite improvement.”

Her driver rests his head on his entwined hands. “She’s fairly consistent, too.”

The other man steps closer, scrutinising her, and she fights the urge to step away. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

“Fan la Norne.”

“Do you know anyone called Haze?”

She frowns. “No.”

Her driver leans forward. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Haze.”

She is instantly confused, her frown deepening. “No it’s not.”

“I did say  _ fairly _ consistent,” her driver says, leaning back in his seat. The warm glow of the setting sun paints him golden in its light.

Pain tears through her before she can reply.

* * *

 

“Hello, my name is Fan la Norne.”

“Fan la Norne,” her driver murmurs. “Are you sure?”

She tilts her head. “I- yes? My name is Fan la Norne.”

“Not Haze?”

“My name is Fan la Norne,” she repeats, confusion lacing the words.

“Your name is Fan la Norne.”

“My name is Fan la Norne.”

“Wonderful,” her driver says, smile spreading across his features. “Hello there, Fan la Norne. When next we meet, it shall be the last, I think. You’re ready.”

She wants to ask him to elaborate, but the flaring pain robs her of the chance.

“Yes,” she barely hears through the mists of agony, “Yes, the next time will be final. Rest now, my Goddess, and prepare.”


End file.
